Something Wicked...

A shock of bright pink greeted Hermione when she entered Snape's parlor. Dolores Umbridge stood in the middle of the room, clipboard in hand and a ridiculous little bow perched on top of her head. Hermione automatically assumed the posture expected of a hand-witch when in the presence of her superiors: hands clasped in front of her, eyes lowered.

After Minister Fudge's death, Dolores Umbridge had been appointed Senior Under-Secretary to the Head of the Department of Social and Educational Reforms, which oversaw both the Hand-witch Program and the Muggleborn Registry. Her presence could only mean a Ministry inquiry, although Hermione couldn't imagine why there would be one. After only a little more than a week in which she had barely seen Snape, there had been hardly any time for trouble to arise – unless Snape was somehow dissatisfied with her.

"Here she is," Snape announced unnecessarily.

Umbridge's bulging eyes settled on Hermione, and her mouth spread into an ugly smile.

"Hello, dear. How are you?" The woman's sickeningly sweet voice made Hermione's stomach tighten and her skin crawl.

Hermione nodded politely. "I am well, thank you."

From beneath lower lashes, she glanced in Snape's direction. The man stood slightly away from her, eyes averted, his mouth a grim slash across his sallow face.

Hermione's apprehension grew. If Snape had changed his mind, if he no longer wanted her in his home... A week prior, Hermione would have given anything for such an eventuality; now she resisted the urge to throw herself at him and beg him to keep her, promise him anything if he didn't send her away – into exile.

Umbridge glanced down at her clipboard. "And she's adjusting well, you say? No incidents of any kind?" she asked.

"Nothing that would merit a report," Snape stated.

Umbridge beamed – an expression that made her toad-like face appear even wider – and Hermione relaxed slightly.

"I'm so glad to hear that, Severus. Our girls are trained well, but some of them can still be... difficult."

"Some require more stern handling than others, I suppose."

"Yes, yes, that is so true. Pity that we've been forced to resort to such crude and cumbersome methods to ensure our future."

"We should be grateful for our Lord's foresight and resourcefulness," Snape pointed out.

Umbridge's smile faltered for an instant. "I am! I mean... And you've done so well."

"Have I?" Snape asked softly, his dark eyes boring into Umbridge, a tight little smile on his face.

"Well, yes! Look at her, so well behaved," Umbridged simpered.

Hermione could feel Umbridge's eyes on her, like cold muck sliding over her skin.

"Not like some of the others," Umbridge continued, her voice taking on the affected tone of a sulking girl. "Some of them, well, they aren't even clean, won't even answer when I speak to them. Macnair's just mopes in her room all day, unwashed, and the smell. Cleansing spells will only go so far; the house-elves practically have to hold her down in the shower to get her clean!"

"Shameful," said Snape.

Hermione's stomach clenched. She had met the girl once – the Macnairs had brought her for a visit to the Crispus' home during her stay there. The girl's belly had been big with child, and they had paraded her in front of the other pure-blood couples gathered there, Macnair bragging about how it was his third child with her and how they intended to keep her for at least two more, while Madam Macnair complained to the other wives about what a burden the girl was. Hermione remembered how Lucius Malfoy had leaned forward to touch the girl's stomach, and how she had prayed that he wouldn't do the same to her own swollen belly – he had not.

"Some of these girls just don't understand the honour that our Lord has bestowed on them," said Umbridge with a mournful sigh.

"Not all can be expected to appreciate the subtle benevolence of our Lord – they are only Mudbloods."

The slur no longer had the effect on Hermione that it once had, but to hear it coming from the same lips that had just the previous night kissed hers so eagerly was somehow shocking, although she couldn't quite understand why – maybe because she had never heard Snape use the epithet before.

"You're so right, Severus! How good of you to remind me of this duty we all share."

"Will there be anything else, Dolores?" Snape asked, a little too tightly.

Umbridge tapped the tip of her quill against the clipboard. "I only have a few itsy, bitsy questions for your hand-witch. As soon as she has answered them, I shall be on my way."

She circled around Hermione, her bulging eyes scouring the young woman's body as if she were assessing a cut of meat – one of dubious quality. "I can see you're clean, well-fed and unharmed..." Umbridge made a note on the parchment attached to her clipboard. "Tell me, dear, have there been any attempts at conception?"

Hermione's mouth had gone dry, and she could feel Snape's eyes carefully studying her. She swallowed thickly before she answered, "Yes – two."

"Hum, too soon to know if they were successful, I suppose..."

The unnaturally loud scratching of Umbridge's quill against the parchment grated on Hermione's ears.

"And how was that?"

Hermione's eyes shot to Snape's face. His expression was inscrutable, but Hermione thought she detected a slight twitching of the muscle just beneath his right eye.

"It was fine," she said.

The scratching of quill against parchment stopped.

"Fine?" Umbridge asked.

Hermione didn't know what the woman wanted her to say – that it had been awful: painful and humiliating? It had not. That it had been wonderful – that her body had shattered and her spirit soared with pleasure? She couldn't say that either.

"It was fine," she repeated.

Umbridge made a little puffing noise and another quick notation on the board before she said, "That will be all. You may return to your room, dear."

Hermione made it as far as the main staircase before she broke into a run; she didn't stop until she reached the sitting-room, winded and flushed.

Snape had not sent her away. Her eyes took in the bookshelves around her. If the wizard's intention had been to accuse her of snooping through his books, he had just wasted the perfect opportunity. It occurred to her that Snape was showing-off, asserting his mastery by defying the Ministry's regulations right under their noses. It was both perverse and admirable – and if he was doing it, so could she.

She approached the shelves with a determined stride and pulled out a copy of Gallo's Encyclopedia of Defensive Spells, a copy of Dark Arts Revealed, and an ancient-looking tome with the promising title of The Kitchen Cauldron: Powerful Witches Through the Ages. It wasn't the Hogwarts Library, but Snape had given her free access to these books, and she had seven years of study for which to make up!

~*~

The green cloud of smoke had barely settled in the fireplace before Severus barreled through the corridors of Malfoy Manor. At this hour Lucius was most likely in the dining-room, and that's where Severus headed. Five pairs of surprised eyes turned to him as the massive double doors banged open, and he charged into the room.

Lucius sat at the head of the table, silver fork halfway to his lips, a piece of chocolate gateau teetering precariously at the end. He was flanked by Narcissa on the left and Draco on the right. Next to Draco sat his young wife, Astoria. From the other end of the table, a plain, young woman with a ruddy face, blond ringlets and a swollen belly stared at Severus, her mouth agape.

Lucius was the first to recover. "Good evening, Severus. We're just finishing dinner, but if you care to join us I'm sure..."

"A word with you, if I may," Severus stated dryly, wanting nothing more at that moment than to hex the composed look of contentment right off Lucius' face.

Narcissa's eyes flickered nervously to her husband, and Draco remained uncharacteristically mute.

"Very well," Lucius answered after a moment, returning the fork to his plate and dabbing at his lips with a napkin.

"In private," Severus emphasized, barely able to contain the ire that boiled in his chest.

They retired to the study, where Lucius cast a casual Muffliato Charm before walking to the liquor cabinet.

"I'm sure you have an explanation for your uncouth behavior," said Lucius.

"It is you, Lucius, who owes me an explanation."

Lucius raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. "I assure you I have no idea to what you refer, but I'm listening if you care to enlighten me."

Lucius turned his back to Severus as he reached for a bottle of amber-colored liquid – the movement was too deliberate not to be intentional, and Severus got the message that Lucius was not intimidated by him.

Purely on principle, he started to refuse the tumbler of scotch that the other wizard offered him, but quickly reconsidered. Severus was going to need all the help he could get in order to make it through this conversation without an outburst that would surely land Lucius in St. Mungo's, and he in Azkaban.

Severus downed half the contents of his glass in one gulp and waited for Lucius to be comfortably settled in one of the plush chairs before he spoke.

"I'm talking about Dolores Umbridge visiting my home this afternoon, at the behest of the Ministry of Magic."

The sudden look of dismay on Lucius' face served to dispel some of Severus' anger – it was obvious by Lucius' discomfited expression that he had been ignorant of the event.

"I had nothing to do with that," Lucius confirmed. He leaned forward in his chair, pinning Severus with an icy glare. "I warned you about this," he hissed.

"You said you could arrange things," Severus reminded him.

"That was before I knew the identity of the party involved! The girl is not exactly low-profile; did you honestly think that I could make her disappear without anyone noticing?"

"My question is: what happens now?"

Lucius bound from his chair and stalked back to the liquor cabinet where he poured himself a drink. "What should have happened in the first place; you will bring her to the Ministry building first thing tomorrow morning, where I'll be waiting for you with a signed order of banishment."

"I can't do that," Severus stated.

Lucius lowered the tumbler slowly, a look of incredulity on his face. "Why not?" he asked.

Severus' eyes flickered to the portrait of a matronly woman with blond hair and gray eyes that hung on the wall – no doubt one of Lucius' ancestors. "She might already be carrying my child," he offered as an explanation.

Lucius' expression grew somber but no less determined. "That is unfortunate, but it changes nothing."

As far as Severus was concerned it did, but he saw no point in arguing about it when he had more pressing matters on his mind.

"If you didn't send Umbridge to my home, then who do you suppose did?"

Lucius' shrugged. "Most likely she took the initiative upon herself. Knowing how she feels about the girl, I'm not surprised she would take a personal interest in the matter of her banishment. When the expected order didn't come through, she probably went searching for it."

"Which led her to the allocation order," Severus concluded grimly.

"And to you," Lucius added.

"Does she really hate Gra... her that much?" Severus caught the slip just in time, but not before Lucius could have noticed – maybe he had grown a little too comfortable around Lucius over the years.

Lucius returned to his chair, carrying the tumbler and bottle with him. He refilled both glasses before he fixed a steady gaze on Severus.

"Loathes her – surely you remember she lobbied vigorously to have the girl hang on the Wall of Traitors next to Weasely and Potter."

Severus nodded. "I also recall you didn't oppose her."

"And you did," Lucius quickly retorted, a trace of suspicion in his tone.

Severus' words were carefully chosen. "She was a child – five days short of her seventeenth birthday – and a good student clearly led astray by Potter and Weasley."

The argument didn't sound any more convincing to his own ears now than it had seven years earlier. It didn't matter – in the end it had been Granger's superior magical skills and her potential to pass those on to her offspring that had decided her fate, not her age. Not to mention that after three years in a Rehabilitation Camp, Potter's friend willingly spreading her legs for pure-blood wizards under orders from the Ministry would have made a fine testament to the success of the Dark Lord's indoctrination practices – if they had worked.

"It doesn't matter now, Severus. You're losing your edge if you think that it's just the hand-witch that Umbridge is after."

Severus' eyes narrowed, and his attention was yanked back to the conversation.

"You have done little to ingratiate yourself to the woman," Lucius explained, "and Umbridge never believed that ridiculous story about you just happening to run out of Veritaserum as she was interrogating Potter..."

"That was..." Severus interrupted.

Lucius raised his hand. "None of my business. If I had to make a guess," Lucius continued, "I would say that she sees your present circumstances as her opportunity to undo you. She will present the incident with the Veritaserum, your protection of this girl, and now the fact that this same girl is living in your home and sharing your bed, as evidence of your ties to Potter. Of course she doesn't have direct access to the Dark Lord – she would have to use Yaxley for that – but I don't see Yaxley offering any resistance."

"It's a stretch; do you really think she can accomplish it?"

"I don't know. The Dark Lord has always favored you above all others to the extent of indulging your little eccentricities, and killing the old man was a coup none of us can hope to surpass. Still, don't make the mistake of underestimating this woman."

Self-loathing was rapidly becoming an uncomfortably familiar emotion for Severus. When he had received the owl from Umbridge shortly after breakfast, all he had been able to think about was the possibility of Umbridge demanding that Hermione be returned to the Ministry, and the thought had unnerved him more than he cared to admit. He should have been able to see the further implications – instead, it had taken Lucius fucking Malfoy to point those out to him.

"Is there anything you can do to upset her plans?" Severus asked.

"Not without implicating myself into the matter more than I already have."

"What about Wishington?"

"He is loyal and discreet, but he is just a paper-pusher. He can jumble a few documents, misplace some missives, overlook a memo or two... but Umbridge is too clever for that. It would only be a matter of time."

"Time is all I need," answered Severus.

Lucius swirled his glass slowly, his cold eyes studying the undulations of the dark liquid inside.

"I'll see what Wishington can do," he finally said without raising his eyes.

Severus nodded curtly and rose to leave.

"Severus."

Severus paused with his hand on the doorknob.

"After this we are even, and you are on your own," Lucius warned.

Severus understood; Lucius' small concession to talk to Wishington was more than he had anticipated – anything more than that would have been too risky, and self-sacrifice was not something Severus was stupid enough to expect from Lucius Malfoy.

"You're on treacherous ground, Severus – tread lightly."

Lucius' ominous words echoed behind him as Severus stormed out of the study.

Granger was not in the kitchen or the parlor when Severus returned; he concluded she was most likely in her bedroom or the reading room. He marched up the stairs and headed in the opposite direction, toward his own chambers.

Once he closed the door, he allowed his body to sink into his favorite, soft chair – a luxury he rarely allowed himself. Every instinct told him to let the girl go, to allow her voice to join the chorus of screams that haunted his nightly nightmares and be done with it. A single word from him was all it would take: an owl, not even, a Floo-call to the Ministry and it would all end. It was the sensible thing to do – a man who harbored the kind of ideas he was contemplating became a liability to himself as well as his friends.

But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was her face looking up at him: her pale cheeks flushed with pleasure, her lips quivering as small gasps escaped from them, her brow furrowed in concentration as she strained under him, taking him in.

Her body had been soft, not like the perfumed-oil saturated skin of other women he had bedded, but yielding and lush. He had not been able to resist the temptation to touch it, to explore the promise of pleasure of her female flesh, hoping that she wouldn't cringe away from him, or worse, start to weep and beg him to stop. She had done neither; she had responded to his touch, and for a little while he had felt – wanted.

The memory of Hermione's words helped put his thoughts into perspective.

It was fine.

"Fuck!" The expletive left his lips as he bound from the chair and stormed out of his room, heading for the laboratory.